


Black Tie Optional

by barricadeur



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Formalwear, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 14:42:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barricadeur/pseuds/barricadeur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras wears a tuxedo, and it does not go unnoticed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Tie Optional

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this photo](http://barricadeur.tumblr.com/post/43968878244/russell-crowe-and-aaron-tveit-backstage-at-the) of Aaron Tveit at the Oscars.

Two hours into this stuffy charity event and Enjolras has eaten three crab puffs, downed a glass and a half of champagne, and forced himself to pay attention through half a dozen self-congratulatory speeches. Four separate strangers have also pinched his ass.

He really hates networking.

It’s a necessary evil, though, and for a good cause, so Enjolras keeps his smile plastered on and his dignity in check. He’s just about to try and schmooze with the police inspector — although what the man is doing at a charity benefit for at-risk youth is anyone’s guess, given his demonstrated antipathy for all young people, at-risk or otherwise — when someone grabs him from behind and pulls him into a closet.

“What the — ” but Grantaire’s hot mouth cuts him off, his body surging forwards to push Enjolras back against the wall.

“I’ve been watching you all night,” says Grantaire against his lips. He slides his hands up between Enjolras’s jacket and his dress shirt, nails dragging against the fabric. “Been trying to get you alone.”

“Grantaire, it’s a fundraiser,” Enjolras protests, but his hands apparently have other plans, settling against the ridges of Grantaire’s shoulder blades instead of pulling him off. Grantaire tastes like hoisin sauce and expensive alcohol, but his teeth are sharp and precise as they pin his bottom lip and tug on it with just the right amount of pressure to make Enjolras’s knees tremble.

“I know,” Grantaire grits out, his hand making a dangerous pass down Enjolras’s shirt front, “Fuck, why do you look like a Kennedy in a tux and people keep mistaking me for a waiter?”

Enjolras smiles against Grantaire’s lips — he grabs a fistful of Grantaire’s ass and hefts him closer. “You think I look like a Kennedy, huh?”

“Oh god,” Grantaire moans, half-laughing, “you’re totally getting off on that, aren’t you?” He rocks up, and Enjolras feels his dick skid against his thigh, separated by multiple layers of fabric. His hands dip below the waistband of Enjolras’s trousers, pulling out his shirttail and pressing clever, hot fingers against the bare skin just inside the cut of Enjolras’s pelvic bone.

Enjolras moves his hand off Grantaire’s ass and takes advantage of his incipient protest to reverse their positions, pressing Grantaire up against the wall and hitching Grantaire’s thigh around the back of his legs. Grantaire’s hair is slicked back and the product cakes under his nails when he snarls his fingers in those dark locks, pulling until Grantaire bares his neck and he can suck kisses into the clean skin there. “Which Kennedy?”

“Jesus,” Grantaire says, and it’s nearly a whimper, “you are such a freak — Bobby, for sure, _fuck._ ”

Enjolras bites down, hard. He keeps one hand in Grantaire’s hair, holding him taut like a bowstring while the other fights with the button of Grantaire’s rented tuxedo trousers, and Christ, how can something that’s meant to be worn by horny promgoers be so difficult to take off? He works the zipper and fits his fingers through the slit in Grantaire’s boxers to skim his thumb over the head of Grantaire’s dick, smearing the drop of precome that forms.

“Oh my god,” Grantaire is whispering, “shit, jesus, I can’t — please, I need to suck you off, just let me —”

But Enjolras has got Grantaire’s trousers and boxers down far enough to grip him better, now, and he curls his wrist with just the kind of pressure that Grantaire likes. “You first. You’re the one who’s been hard up all night, watching me.”

Grantaire’s hands are tracking up and down Enjolras’s back; there’s enough light from under the cracked door to see the way his eyes are slitted shut. His breath is coming fast like it gets when he’s close, kisses sloppy with the need to take gulping breaths. Every time their lips part for a fraction of a second, Grantaire tries to form Enjolras’s name but he never gets past the first sound before Enjolras is kissing him again.

Enjolras lets go of Grantaire’s shoulder to dig out his pocket square, and when Grantaire starts to shake apart in his arms he puts it to good use. Grantaire’s quiet when he comes, which doesn’t always happen, just a hitching gasp and his face pushed into Enjolras’s shoulder. Enjolras keeps touching him until he starts to squirm a bit, then balls up the pocket square and — with a rueful grimace — tucks it into his jacket pocket. He can feel Grantaire’s saliva dampening a spot on his dress shirt.

“All right?” he murmurs.

Grantaire’s chin nudges Enjolras’s chest when he nods. Enjolras rubs his back in long, steady strokes. His own erection pulses against Grantaire’s thigh, but he swallows and some of the ache subsides.

He steps back. “We’ve been gone a while; we should probably —”

Grantaire looks up. His hair, Enjolras can just make out, is _insane._ “Not so fast.” Enjolras hears the wet sound of him licking his lips as he drops to his knees. “We’ve got some unfinished business, Mr. President.”

“RFK was never elected,” says Enjolras, just because he feels like he ought to, on principle.

“Ugh, how can someone so hot be such a total nerd,” Grantaire sighs. His fingers make short work of the fastenings of Enjolras’s trousers, and Enjolras has to prop himself up against the wall when Grantaire gets his mouth around him.

“Jesus,” he exhales, fitting his hand into Grantaire’s hair again. Grantaire makes an approving sound, so Enjolras keeps it there — sometimes he gets tetchy about Enjolras touching while he does this, preferring to set his own rhythm and keep the control on his end.

Tonight, though, he’s all dirtyhot suction, taking Enjolras all the way in one go and letting him fuck up into his mouth. Enjolras feels the head of his dick brush against the softness of Grantaire’s upper palate and something of him uncoils — he pulls out enough to let Grantaire take a breath, and then thrusts up again and Grantaire just _lets_ him, hands gripping Enjolras’s hipbones so hard that his nails are likely leaving marks.

“Jesus,” Enjolras repeats, “your mouth, it’s obscene, I can’t even — ” He’s spent all evening giving his words away cheaply, trading them for zeroes added to checks and now he’s completely bereft of the words to describe how good Grantaire feels. Maybe the English language wasn’t built for this; maybe it can’t possibly capture the hot, twisting victory that pumps through Enjolras’s veins when he pulls back and Grantaire follows him, like he’s chasing the taste of Enjolras on his tongue.

All too soon, Enjolras feels packets of sparks dissolve through his bloodstream, racing down his limbs and then back up into his chest. He tugs on Grantaire’s hair in warning, but when Grantaire meets his eyes he pulls back too far, and Enjolras starts to come against Grantaire’s parted lips before Grantaire gets his mouth around him again and swallows the rest down. Enjolras keeps his eyes open even when it feels like his retinas are burning, transfixed by the sheen at the corner of Grantaire’s lips. Everything goes white.

He barely registers slumping down against the wall, Grantaire doing his trousers back up. One kiss to the center of his sweat-soaked forehead.

The light flips on and he winces, shading his eyes; when he pulls his hand away he realizes that they’re not in a closet at all, but a single occupant bathroom. There’s a lock, at least. Grantaire’s stepped in front of the mirror, and is fussing at his hair.

“Lost cause, I think,” he tuts. He licks his lips, and Enjolras shivers.

Grantaire turns to look at him. “You don’t look so bad, all things considered.” His expression is all lazy smugness as he helps Enjolras to his feet again. Tucks his shirt back into his trousers, smoothes out the wrinkles and gently combs his hair back into place.

“You’re on your own about the bowtie, I’m afraid,” he says. “Never any good at those.”

Enjolras leans in and kisses him, tastes himself in the corners of Grantaire’s mouth. It’s not unpleasant. Grantaire tries to move away, but Enjolras grabs the points of Grantaire’s shirt collar to hold him in place, kisses him until the taste is gone.

When he pulls back, Grantaire is smiling. “I like the bowtie undone,” he confesses.

“Not exactly Bobby Kennedy.” Enjolras’s throat feels raw, even though he wasn’t the one who’d been on his knees.

“You look like you,” Grantaire says. He brushes an invisible speck of lint off Enjolras’s lapel.

They don’t hold hands when they go back out into the party, but they stand close enough together that their knuckles brush.

**Author's Note:**

> entirely [acchikocchi's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/acchikocchi/pseuds/acchikocchi) fault. and this guy's:
> 
>  


End file.
